DESPAIR.
Pandolfini rushed out of the house in a state of misery and despair
impossible to describe. He had not made any explanation to Mr.
Hunstanton of the real state of affairs. He was struck dumb; the earth
seemed to open under his feet, and everything solid in the world to melt
away. He stood giddy and miserable on the edge of this precipice,
feeling that he did not dare to take any further step one way or
another. The dilemma in which he found himself seemed more terrible than
anything that had ever befallen mortal man. In the first place, Diana
was lost to him, there had never been any hope for him; all his
delicious fancies of last night had been dreams founded on a lie. She
had never thought of him, never considered him as more than an
acquaintance: it was all a fiction, all a delusion, upon which his
momentary but ecstatic hopes had been built. For the moment this
crushed him almost more than the other practical side of the mistake,
which he did not realise. Twenty-four hours before he had known equally
that Diana was out of his reach, that for him to seek her was folly,
that, however he might love, he must go upon his way, and make no sign:
and that this brief climax of life to him, this love-dream, this
unexpected undesired revelation of a something in existence which might
have been higher than his sweetest hopes, and dearer than his dearest
dreams--was nothing, a passing vision of no real importance to him or to
any one. He had known this very well yesterday; but it was infinitely
more bitter to him to-day. Then indeed he had felt as if everything
worth living for would go away with her, as if life would be utterly
blank to him, without meaning or grace--but he had faced the blank,
mournfully yet manfully, knowing that nothing better could be.
Now, however, after he had been led to deceive himself, had been forced
into it, after such resistance as he was capable of making to an
apparent joy which was the crown of all possible and impossible wishes,
now!---- The bitterness, the keen sting of disappointment, the
resentment with himself for ever having consented to this delusion, all
mingled with and intensified the insupportable pang that tore him
asunder, the sense that it was all illusion, that no one save himself in
his folly had ever thought of Diana as his object: that she had known
nothing of his love, and had not even given him the hearing, the
consideration, which were implied in a refusal. This it was that wounded
him most wildly, driving him almost mad with its sting. Had she refused
to listen to his suit, yet she would have known it at least, would have
been aware that he loved her, obliged to carry the knowledge of that
fact along with her wherever she went; and, being courteous and sweet,
and full of tenderness for others, Pandolfini knew that in that case she
would have given him many a compassionate and gentle thought. But even
of this he was robbed, for she did not know. The very possibility of a
hearing, the suggestion, had never been his. Diana knew nothing of his
heart, had never thought of him at all, would never think of him more.
Could it be possible that any man had ever had such a wrong done him? To
be buoyed up with hopes which were dashed by a refusal, ah, that might
have been hard to bear! but how much harder to know that these hopes had
never existed, that they were delusion and mistake and nothing more!
There was a stifled rage and mortification in his misery, rage with
himself for ever having believed it, mortification beyond words at the
depth of vanity and folly in himself which was thus revealed to him.
Poor Pandolfini! it had not been vanity: but this was how in his misery
it appeared to him. Fool! to think that Diana, _Diana!_ could waste any
thought upon such as he!
This fancy drove him forth wildly from Mr. Hunstanton’s presence. He
dared not speak, or make any answer, in case of betraying feelings which
the good Hunstanton could not understand; and it was some time before he
realised the real practical effect of his good Hunstanton’s proceedings.
A vessel cannot be filled above its measure, and Pandolfini was too much
overwhelmed with the absolute loss of Diana to take into his mind the
fact that this loss involved something else equally appalling. He was
not to have the _gentil donna_, the princess of his dreams; but that was
not all. Something had been thrust into his arms instead. Something?
What? He stood still in the middle of the street when the fact burst
upon him, and gave a sudden wild cry of despair. It was not so wonderful
there as it would be here that a man should cry aloud in the extremity
of suffering. What was this that was thrust into his arms instead? When
he stood there and fairly contemplated what had happened to him, any
car of Juggernaut that had driven over him and crushed him into a
shapeless mass upon the stones would have done Pandolfini a kindness--or
so at least in his wretchedness he thought.
Mr. Hunstanton did not understand his visitor’s strange change of mood.
To come in so eager, white with anxiety, breathless with
excitement,--and then, when the good news was told him, to stand aghast
for a moment, to walk away to the window, to make no reply. These were
all the acts of a madman. Was his head turned?--was there a screw loose
somewhere, as was the case so often with “these Italians”? Next time, no
doubt, he would be laughing and crying with joy--always excitable,
always in one extreme or another. Mr. Hunstanton forgot the peculiarity
of his friend’s character, and classed him thus summarily with his race,
by way of getting rid of a cold shiver of doubt, a momentary
uncomfortableness on his own part, as to whether he had, as he had
intended, carried out Pandolfini’s instructions to the letter, and acted
for him according to his wishes. He quenched out this alarming thought
by the reflection that a foreigner, and especially an Italian, acted
exactly opposite to what an Englishman would do in the circumstances. He
felt it so much, that was how it was. It overpowered him. These foreign
fellows, even the best of them, let themselves go. They gave in to their
feelings. They had not the self-control which is peculiar to the Briton,
and did not even think self-control necessary. That was all about it.
Pandolfini was so much overcome by his success and happiness that it
took all power of speech from him. He was (no doubt) actually struck
dumb from excess of feeling. By-and-by he would come back and throw
himself on his friend’s neck, and thank him for his exertions. There
could be no doubt that this was how it would be.
Yet, nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that there was a cold shiver,
a cloud of doubt, an uncomfortable sense of uncertainty in Mr.
Hunstanton’s mind. He did not feel at his ease, or happy. There was
something in his friend’s look, in the blank misery of his eyes, that
discomfited him. He sat in his study for an hour or two, very uneasy,
listening to all the steps that went up the stairs. He even posted Gigi,
his servant, at the door, to bring him news if Pandolfini should come
back. And when there was nothing to be heard or seen of the truant, and
the day began to decline, and the hour of the Ave Maria approached,
which was the end of all things, the good man could dissemble his
anxiety no longer. He went out stealthily (for it was time to dress for
dinner) to look for his friend; and found him after a long walk very
near his own house, standing by the parapet looking down into the Arno.
The early moon had come out into the sky, while yet the glories of
sunset were not over. Pandolfini was staring intently at the reflection
of the moon in the water--he was entirely absorbed in it. When
Hunstanton touched him on the shoulder, he woke slowly, as one in a
dream.
“I say, Pandolfini, my good fellow, this won’t do, you know,” he cried.
“I dare say you like to dream in this way. All fellows in love (I
suppose) do; so they say, at least. But you must not give yourself up to
that till you have seen them. You ought to go and see them. English
ladies, you know, are not accustomed to that kind of courtship. I took
upon myself to break the ice for you, and they took it very well, on the
score, you know, that this was how things were done by your country
folks, and that it was your modesty and so forth. But they expected you
to go and follow it up; so did I. English ways are different. We don’t
understand that sort of way of making love by proxy. To tell you the
truth, I should not have let any one do it for me. But you must follow
it up. You ought to have followed it up before now.”
“Follow it up?” said Pandolfini. He had returned to his gazing into the
river, after rousing up momentarily to hear what Hunstanton had to say.
“Yes, to be sure,” cried the other, getting more and more nervous,
taking him by the arm in his fright and impatience, and shaking him
slightly. “My good fellow, you must rouse up. It is not like you. It is
not quite _nice_, you know, after sending such a commission to a girl,
not to go yourself at the very first moment when you understand she is
disposed to hear you. It is not--well, it doesn’t look
quite--honourable.”
Pandolfini gave a start of quick resentment, and looked at his friend,
who had begun to be extremely anxious. Mr. Hunstanton’s ruddy
countenance had fallen. He was limp and colourless with suspense. A look
of fright had taken the place of that fine confidence which usually
distinguished him. “Good heavens! _have_ I put my foot in it?” was what
he was saying to himself, and the reflection of this question was very
plainly to be read in his face.
“What did you say?” said Pandolfini, somewhat hoarsely. “Follow it up?
Yes, I understand: yes, yes, I go. You are right; I do not doubt you are
right. But it is all--strange to me--and new,” he added, with a kind of
smile which was not very consoling. It was a smile, however, and
Hunstanton did his best to feel satisfied.
“To be sure, to be sure,” he said, encouragingly. “This sort of thing is
always new--and strange. Don’t be afraid. You’ll soon get used to it.
You’ll find it come quite natural,” he added, slapping his friend on the
back in a way that was intended to be jocular. “Come along, though, you
must not be shy. If you make haste, you have time yet before
dinner--indeed they dine early, I know.”
“Before--dinner? but I am not dressed. I am not ready for the evening,”
said Pandolfini, spreading out his hands with an air of dismay.
“Dressed! fiddlesticks! at a moment like this. Pandolfini, you really
disappoint me,” cried Mr. Hunstanton, feeling more uncomfortable than
ever. “If you are going to shilly-shally like this, why on earth did you
employ me? Think of that poor girl, after committing herself, kept
waiting and wondering all this time, and not knowing what to think.”
“I will come--I will come,” said Pandolfini, hoarsely; and he made
half-a-dozen rapid steps in the direction of the Palazzo dei Sogni: then
he stopped abruptly. “My best friend,” he said, with a smile, “you will
let me follow you after, in a little--a very, very few minutes? This
is, as you say, a moment----it raises the heart--there is much to think
of. But I will come, almost as soon as you are there. Yes, I give you my
word. But it is alone that I must go.”
“Surely, surely,” cried good Mr. Hunstanton. “We’ll see you after, in
the evening. God bless me! the fellow didn’t think I meant to go with
him to Sophy,” he added within himself. “If that is manners in Italy,
thank heavens it is not in England; and catch me making love for any man
again! As sure as I am a living man, I thought he was going to cry off,”
Mr. Hunstanton said to himself, with a cold perspiration breaking out
all over him. He never had, he acknowledged afterwards, such a fright in
his life.
When he was left alone, Pandolfini returned to his gaze over the
parapet. He did not venture to look at the moon in the sky; but the
reflection of her, all broken and uneven by the crisp of the little
wavelets which the evening breeze was ruffling upon Arno--that he might
still look at for a moment. His eyes were dry and burning, and yet it
was as if he looked at that moon through the mist of tears. Words came
into his mind, words of her language, all of which had seemed delicate
and sacred to her in this sweet dreamtime that was now so fatally past.
He was not so familiar with English that this line should return to his
ear at such a moment, as it might so easily have done to a natural-born
subject of the greatest of poets--but yet it came. He knew his
Shakespeare almost as well as he knew his Dante, and what could an
Italian say more?--
“The imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy free.”
He said these words over and over to himself; and by-and-by the bells
began to chime all round him, telling the Ave Maria. Hail, all hail, oh
blessed among women! This was more than Pandolfini could bear. He put
his hands up to his ears, and crushed the sound out till it was over.
When the tingling air was still again, he turned resolutely on his way.
He was still in his morning dress, the excuse which had served him with
Hunstanton: but what did it matter? He did not feel that he could trust
himself even to pause again, much less turn back. He went with steady
determination along Arno, seeing the lights shine in the river, with a
wavering glimmer and movement: and in himself, too, notwithstanding his
steady pace, there was a wavering play of giddiness, a sense of
instability, the earth reeling under his feet, the heavens revolving
about him. He went on all the same to the palace of the dreams, where he
had given all that was in him to give, for nothing--and where now,
strange flicker of human vanity and mutual ignorance, another heart was
about to be given him for nothing--for less than the asking. He would
not look at the light in Diana’s window, he went straight up past the
door where his heart had beat last night with such wild gasps of
expectation and hope. Had he obeyed his impulse then, burst into her
presence, and told her! Had he but done it! Then at least she would have
known, and he would not have been so utterly deceived. This thought
swept into his mind as he passed, but he gave it no willing
entertainment. He went up with a resolute step, up, beyond even the
Hunstantons’, to Mrs. Norton’s door.
They had given him up for the day, with a little vexation, a little
disappointment, and were wondering whether they would meet him in the
evening as usual, and how they ought to comport themselves. As for Mrs.
Norton, she was beginning to think she had been rash, and to regret her
acceptance of the suitor on Mr. Hunstanton’s word alone. It was
nonsense, she fell, to talk of such a man as Pandolfini as too timid to
plead his own cause. Had she been too rash? Sophy, whatever thoughts
might be hers, made no sign. A lover was like a new doll to Sophy: it
was more. It gave her importance, made somebody of her in a moment: and
she was not going to do anything which could pull her down from this
enviable elevation. She would not say she was disappointed or alarmed;
but all her senses were on the alert, and she heard his step coming up
the stair with a rising throb of the heart. “It may be only a parcel--it
may be only the newspapers,” she cried, clinging to her aunt. “If it is
him, my darling, I must rush away. It is you he will want to see first,”
cried Mrs. Norton; but even while she said this, Pandolfini walked into
the room. They both uttered a simultaneous cry of surprise. He was very
pale and excited, but quite calm in external appearance. Mrs. Norton
made an effort to free herself from Sophy, and with a smile to him, was
hastening away.
“Madam,” said Pandolfini, “what can I say to you? The good Hunstanton
has authorised me to come. He tells me that you have been so kind, so
generous, as to confide to me the happiness of one most dear. How can I
repay such trust as you have had in me? It will be not a matter for
words; but that I may live to show it from year to year.”
“Mr. Pandolfini,” said Mrs. Norton, not without dignity--“you are a good
man, and a man of honour. This is why I have not hesitated to do what
might otherwise seem imprudent, and commit my best treasure to you.”
She could not have made a more appropriate speech, or one that was
better timed. “I pray God,” he said, gravely, “that this best treasure
may not find you imprudent, nor that you have done what you will
regret.” And he took Sophy’s hand and kissed it. The seriousness of his
face did not relax, neither did his paleness warm with any gleam of
colour as he did so. Sophy blushed in a rosy warmth of happiness. She
was surprised, indeed, that he should let her hand go so easily. Not so
do the lovers in books, of whom the girl had heard and read. And there
was a pause, in which none of the three knew exactly what to do or to
say.
“Have you dined?” said Mrs. Norton, to make a way of escape for herself;
for, of course, what he wanted was to get rid of her, she felt sure.
What so natural? “You know we dine early; but I was just going to order
tea. As you are going to have an English wife,” she added, with a laugh
which jarred dreadfully with the portentous gravity of his aspect, “you
must learn to like such an English meal as tea;” and pleased with this
little speech, which she felt to be both graceful and appropriate, the
good little woman hurried towards the door.
“Nay,” cried Pandolfini, hurriedly stopping her. “I have only come in a
great hurry to--to thank you for a confidence so generous. I have not
sufficient of time to stay. It is to my regret, my great regret. But I
could not let the evening pass without saying how I thank you. What I
feel--what--gratitude--what devotion! The evening must not pass without
this.”
“But cannot you stay with us?” said Mrs. Norton.
“And oh! can’t you come this evening as usual?--it is one of Diana’s
nights,” cried Sophy, with countenance aghast.
“Alas!” he cried, with a face in which there was misery enough for that
or a much greater misfortune. “What can I do? I am rent asunder. I have
my heart in two places. But I cannot come. I have--business. Indeed it
is not possible. I must hasten away.”
“Oh,” cried Sophy, “I call that hard--very hard: not to be together the
first night. You have never had business before----”
“No; I have never had business before. It is more needful now that I put
my affairs in order,” he said, and looked at her with an attempt at a
smile.
“Of course we understood that,” said Mrs. Norton. “Of course, my
darling! it is quite reasonable. Dear Mr. Pandolfini must have many
things to do: but you must allow it is natural that Sophy should be
disappointed--the first night, as she says,” added the aunt, with a look
at Pandolfini. Once more he took Sophy’s hand and put it to his lips.
“She is an angel of goodness,” he said with fervour, kissing her hand
again; but then he kissed Mrs. Norton’s hand (which seemed to Sophy
unnecessary), and after a very few words more, hastened away,--leaving
them, it is needless to say, somewhat dismayed, they could scarcely tell
how--and yet overawed and dazzled. They stood and looked at each other
for a moment or two in silence. There was a half-pout on Sophy’s lips,
and a look about her eyes, as if for small provocation she might cry;
but she ventured on no other demonstration. And then Mrs. Norton took
the matter up, and put down all objections with a high hand.
“Now, Sophy, my pet,” she said, “I congratulate you with all my
heart--but you see now you have got to deal with a gentleman, not with a
poor old auntie that does everything you wish whether it is convenient
or not: with a gentleman, my love--one who has business that cannot be
trifled with, you know. And you must just make up your mind to have him
when you can, not whenever you like. For, my love, you have entered on a
new phase of life, and this is what you must make up your mind to, now.”
There was something in the grandeur of this address, and the strange
thrill with which she felt the reality of the new position, which
silenced Sophy. She stopped in the middle of her pout. It might not be
so satisfactory, but it was more imposing than anything she had dreamed
of. A lover who only kissed your hand, that was not according to Sophy’s
preconceived idea of lovers--but it was very imposing. And then, of
course, he was an Italian, and this must be the dignified Italian way!